


A Fractured Calling

by Wrckingball



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mythology References, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, canon divergence - season 3A
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23302543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrckingball/pseuds/Wrckingball
Summary: Something has changed. That's for certain. The Nemeton is active, though to what end, no one can say. No one seems to want to know either, a fact that has sent Stiles Stilinski into overdrive. While researching everything he can on the subject, strange dreams, and an even stranger new arrival to town plague his thoughts. Meanwhile, The Hales travel across the southern United States on a quest to find a new home.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Kudos: 9





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this fic for well over four years. I'm a penultimate procrastinator, but given the times we're in now, I've decided to finally start posting it. It's not finished, but I will endeavor to write it as often as my schedule and sanity allow. I have no idea how long it will actually be, though it is tentatively planned to be a trilogy of sorts. Then again, you know what they say about the best laid of plans.
> 
> I've rated this fic as mature due to coarse language and canon-typical violence (and possibly some canon-atypical violence) but have no plans to write anything graphic pertaining to sex. There's nothing wrong with it, I'm just not great at writing it, and it's not really my style. So if that's what you're looking for, I apologize, but would ask you to stick around regardless. I'll update the tags as this beast plods on, and would value input on that as we move along down the line. This isn't my first published fic, but it is my first in well over a decade. I'm a little out of the game, and have no dedicated editor, so your comments--and kind mentions of points that need revision--are welcomed.
> 
> I've tried to be as faithful to the canon timeline as I can be, but have taken some liberty with ages here and there. This work is canon-compliant up to the end of Season 3A. Thank you.

_“So we found our way back home  
_ _Let our cuts and bruises heal  
_ _While a brand-new war began  
_ _One that no one else could feel”_  
\--Sleeping At Last, Mars

The dichotomy of mortal curiosity--their hungry fumbling to see all creation through a keyhole, and their inevitable terror when what has been witnessed cannot be unseen--was never more appropriately illustrated than the September day when Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, and Allison Argent, desperate to save their families from certain destruction, dove headlong and heedless into a great and cavernous unknown. 

Saying that the three of them were ignorant before their venture would be unfair, as each of them had fought and struggled and come to a sort of terms with, if not a full understanding of, the preternatural nature of their lives. However, knowing that the world is dangerous and strange is far and away different from the knowledge that, when cracked open and spread bare, that same old world is well and truly alive, that It has motives, that It wants and needs. It was watching, and even more disturbing, It always had been. They returned from that brink and refused to look back, and honestly, I cannot blame them. Who could? 

The whole of mortal myth is filled with so many such characters that the archetype is burned into the collective actions of an entire species: learn because you are afraid, fear further at what you learn. Billions of Pandoras floundering about, opening their own private boxes of calamity, large and small. Generation after generation repeating the same sad story until it becomes yet another cautionary tale too often overlooked, then forgotten completely and eventually replaced by some new tale of woe. Ad infinitum. It could be almost darkly comedic, their stalwart insistence against what they'd come to know, the playing to type, if not for the fact that they were still so very young, and in the moment of their grand awakening they had so many things left to do--real and pressing things, and time had never been their ally. Sadly, It never would be. 

That morning, though, with their current battle over and their hearts heavy with an overwhelming sense of relief at circumvented doom, that selfsame forced ignorance gave them one tiny respite. Scott didn't worry about what his new power meant. He merely hovered protectively over Melissa as his mother tended all of their wounds, her medical kit spread out on the kitchen table before them. 

Allison didn't dwell on the future of her family name, just busied herself with helping Isaac start the coffee maker while keeping an eye on her father, as if he'd vanish again were she to look away for more than a moment. To the elder Argent’s credit, he allowed her worry, and didn’t let her see him doing the same. 

Stiles didn't let his mind become a whirl of questions or explanations, didn't try to ferret out what was coming or why. He merely sagged quietly in the chair next to his father, content with the fact that the man was alive and, for the moment, safe. 

No one spoke for almost half an hour. There would have to be an accounting. There were too many variables, too many questions lingering in the pregnant air of the kitchen. They knew that it would all have to be unpacked eventually, but for a time at least, everyone seemed completely at ease with only the burble of brewing coffee between them. I wish it could have lasted. I really do. Even then, as I watched, and waited, and curiously pondered, I felt a strange sense of pity.

I often wonder how I hadn't noticed before. As I said, I had been watching, just as I always have and always will. I had seen them several times in my observances, but didn't really spare much thought to their lives. They were unique, of course, but not special. Interesting, but not especially noteworthy. They weren't, at least not until they made the choice to die, to suffer, to peel back the veil, and for what? Not knowledge, not glory, not power, not even out of blind and foolish luck. No those brave three—aided by brave friends now forever linked—forged ahead for love. Oh love, of all things! To protect. To save. A grand sacrifice. It caught my attention, and I felt their approach like a gathering storm, or the gathering idea of a storm; the needling presentiment of danger. Afterward I went back through the recollections and moments, days, weeks, decades, a thousand years. I pushed aside my previous ruminations and pinned every instance to the board of my mind like struggling beetles. I pulled apart every thread, every link, back to the beginning, only to spin them together again in fractal webs of causality and chance. It was fascinating, the events and the happenstance that could forge such things in mortals, and I think I had forgotten just why I loved them so. I may forget again, but I hope not. 

How long have I looked for such a thing? Such bravery? Such strength? I cannot recall. It's not easy or important to remember, so I won't. I don't care, and time, for me, has never mattered much at all. I wondered, and do wonder, and always will wonder, if they had known then what was coming, if they wouldn't have left, fled, bolted and gone their separate ways to fade into the rising sun. I like to think that they wouldn't have, even if it is a rather silly notion. Mortals, though lovely, are flawed. I too am flawed, but I have had far more time to iron out the wrinkles. And I have time still.

I think I became attached, then. I know I am now. It is hard not to. I do not believe that all things are preordained. I've seen no evidence in all of my observations, and prophecies are idle fantasy even in a world that contains magic trees, werewolves, and spells. I know that if it hadn't been Scott McCall, strong of heart that he is and will be, another True Alpha would have risen. Such is the nature of wolves and of the world, and yes, even time. However, I have seen it in the pieces. I think that the things that made up his past, and the ones that connected the future of all those around him were the right ones, and that the lot of them would have fought even if they'd known just what was coming their way. 

That's not to say I blame the Hales for their flight that fateful morning, oh no, not at all. Who honestly could if they had really paid attention? The Hales had their parts to play as well, and I watched them just as keenly from that moment on, beginning to end, backwards and forwards, life to death. So much death with those poor souls, and again, I did feel pity. I am not so cold. I am an observer, but I will never be wholly impartial. There is so much beauty and horror in any given moment in this massive universe, and if I were to ever cease appreciating even the smallest detail, well then I might as well just give up entirely.

I decided to do something, then. I got up from my studies, organized the occurrences and histories into tidy mental piles, and set to planning. Though not in form or function, I was there in the kitchen, in spirit. Melissa had just begun stitching up one of the sheriff's wounds, and though the man barely hissed, I could perceive the aching exhaustion radiating off of him like the humming of a generator. It was too much for his son, and I knew Stiles would leave even before he did. I'm shocked he didn't do it sooner, but then again, that boy is made of much sterner stuff than I think anyone realizes, including himself. He will, though. He will. Stiles clambered from his chair, made some excuse about how he needed some air, and retreated down the hall and out of the front door before anyone could question or follow. Frayed, and too perceptive, the poor thing couldn't deal with that much emotional stimuli. It's a hard thing to know that someone you love has suffered, or is suffering, and harder still when you feel you could have prevented such pain. This is something I know all too well. I knew it even before all that I’ve come to know now. It’s an old lesson and I... I empathized with him. It may be gauche, but I think he may have become my favorite then. He certainly is now. 

Regardless, I shifted my focus. I left the kitchen--changed scenes, as it were--and I didn't stop to check on any other goings on. I didn't peer or contemplate or split my focus. I was curious, and even slightly worried, if it's alright to admit such a thing. Oh of course it's alright. You cannot judge me. You don't and can’t know what I know.

Stiles breathed heavily on the porch in the gathering dawn. He kept that composure for a few moments, but as the first rays of light came over the horizon he choked, lost his stoic hold, and wept openly. Stiles broke like the sunrise. He lost his footing and leaned against the McCall's porch railing, buried his face in his arms, and sobbed. I could feel his mind shuddering under the weight of his anguish, and the weight of the questions he had, always had, and still had no answers for. It fired at random, very similar to the images that pass through the mind of the dying as they make that final journey. If asked pointedly I would deny it, but even I felt like weeping with him. Not completely out of sadness, mind you, but in understanding. I knew I had found a kindred spirit, then. Here was this boy, brave, and silly, and mortal, and weak. Here was this boy who wept for the pain of his father, for his friends, and even in the depths of his own cathartic despair, still spared a thought, however chaotic, for what was to come; for what needed to be done. I know I made the right choice.

Stiles cried there for several minutes. He didn't notice the Hales' car pull into the drive, and he didn't notice Derek step out and up onto the porch, and he certainly didn't know that he'd come to say goodbye. For the briefest of moments I resented the intrusion even though I had no right, and I wasn't really there. That feeling faded when I really looked at the situation, when I let my objectivity return, when I remembered that I knew what even the two of them didn't and wouldn't for some time. The fools, but alas, as I've said, they are mortals and that is what they do. That is what people do. They follow the beat and drum of the paths they create, beholden to the fates they craft. How could I have expected either of them to say what they really meant when, at that time, they didn't even truly know what they were feeling? Laughable now, but not then. It was just pain, and lost, unrealized, untethered feelings. It was wretched, so beautifully wretched.

Stiles dried his eyes. He tried to make a joke--always humble, self-deprecating--about how silly he must have looked. Manly crying, I think he called it, oblivious to the true power it takes to own sorrow. Derek remained quiet for several moments. He hesitated before he explained that he was leaving. He had to do it three times before Stiles understood that he meant permanently. After that, Stiles became angry. He didn't understand where that anger was coming from, of course, and attributed it to history and the stress of their shared ordeal. He accused, berated, may have used the word coward. For all his faults, the wolf took each barb with surprising deference. Maybe it appeared like cowardice, but I saw in it a nobility. Derek ducked his head, apologized softly, and left without speaking to anyone else, a perfect picture of a man more broken than he had the understanding to admit or fix. That should have been a clue, I feel. It should have been a clue for both of them, but then again, neither had really read the obvious signs up to that point. For creatures with such limited spans on this earth, mortals do so like to take their time. 

When the Hales' car pulled away and was out of sight, Stiles cried again. He cursed and cried until he was dry, balled his fists and straightened his back against the light of morning. He went inside again, and I did not follow. I returned to my thoughts. I looked over everything once more. I had to make sure, and if my plan was to work, I had to be doubly sure. Unequivocal. I would not visit Stiles again for some time, but when I did, I wanted to come to him correctly. I think I managed. He would certainly disagree. That couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. Because what are plans if not invitations for upheaval?

And for all my careful observations I didn’t see--could not see--that others had plans of their own. 


	2. The Magic

_“I'm looking for the magic  
_ _I'm feeling for the right way out of my mind  
_ _Looking for the alchemy to release me from my maze_  
 _I am makin' myself”  
_ _\--_ Joan As Police Woman, _The Magic_

“You've read that already, haven't you?”

Stiles looked up from the book in question just as Lydia crossed to the other side of the long library table and set her purse down. It still surprised him that her presence had become ubiquitous, seemingly overnight, but it certainly wasn't an unwelcome occurrence. She didn't spend every lunch with him, but more often than not she would drop by on her way to the cafeteria to see what he was working on. “Yeah, but I wanted to see if I missed anything."

Lydia ignored the opening for a well-placed barb about his questionable attention span, and instead busied herself with removing the lid of the plastic container holding her salad, the only food in school she deigned to eat. “And did you?”

“No, I don't think so.” Stiles couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. “I've read every single book Deaton will let me, and I still can't find a single mention of the ritual that isn't worded like a riddle or an ominous warning. I did find a nice recipe for some kind of wild mushroom stew, so there's that.”

In the nearly two weeks since the eclipse Stiles had done a herculean amount of reading, both online and off, and though the subject matter was beyond fascinating--he had notes about a lot more than stew--the toil and the lack of any real outcome had left him a little worse for wear. It didn't help matters that, beyond Lydia's occasional blithe academic curiosity or help with translation, none of the others seemed to take his efforts all that seriously. Scott and Allison were apparently happy to put the whole affair behind them, and if they worried at all about the nebulous consequences of their shared ritual, they never mentioned it. The threat was over. It was time to get back to some semblance of normalcy, or the closest a group like theirs could reach. Admittedly, Stiles agreed. Hadn’t they all earned a rest? Scott was trying to figure out what it meant to be an alpha werewolf with practically no guidance. Allison was attempting to restructure her family. Those were ridiculously tall orders for anyone to take on, let alone two teenagers. That was to say nothing about the lingering issue of trying to find out where their relationship stood, if one existed at all anymore. Then, as if that wasn't enough, there was the ever-present schoolwork. At least that was something all of them could agree was a shitstorm. The entire town was still reeling in its own way, but it was really the high school that suffered the most.

“Then I suppose this isn't a good time to tell you about my mom,” Lydia remarked before spearing a tomato wedge with her plastic fork. “Also, honey, you need to breathe at some point.”

For just a moment Stiles wondered if Lydia had been somehow reading his mind--stranger things had happened, after all--but realized he'd been speaking aloud in a stream-of-consciousness litany that left him with no idea what he had said instead of thought, what she'd heard, or when the whole thing had actually began. Since Lydia didn't appear to be all that bothered--and would certainly say if she were--and he could already feel his ears beginning to turn red, Stiles swallowed his embarrassment and hoped for the best. “Oh god, what happened to your mom?”

Everyone assumed that Mrs. Martin would continue to be their interim English teacher, at least until after the winter break had come and gone. In the wake of so many faculty members dying, disappearing under questionable circumstances, or quitting outright, every retired, reserve, or substitute member of the Beacon Hills High School staff had been mobilized. Even with such a call to arms, several full-time teachers had to pull double or triple duty in subjects they had barely any knowledge of. Coach Finstock only lasted a day trying to make sense of the still-missing (but not missed) Harris's notes, so the Science Department continued to be led by a revolving door of faces from all corners of the campus. With no other options, Lydia had actually stepped in to teach a chemistry lesson on one particularly chaotic day, which had been as amazing as it had been terrifying. Even the lunch ladies looked frazzled most of the time, and the entire hallway smelled like coffee if someone left the teacher’s lounge door open for more than a few moments.

Through it all, though, Mrs. Martin remained one of the brighter spots, and Stiles was happy for her. Despite Lydia's stalwart insistence to never broach the subject, it was no secret around town that her father was never coming home after his last “business trip.” Her mother obviously enjoyed--and needed--the chance to get out of the house and back into something good for her. English wasn't really her area of expertise, but Mrs. Martin was pleasant and tried to keep things interesting. Also Stiles was almost certain that she wasn't some kind of magical murder-witch. That fact could never be praised enough.

“Always the pessimist,” Lydia said with a roll of her eyes. She smiled, however. “Nothing happened to my mom, she's just not going to be teaching English anymore.”

“Ok, still not good news,” Stiles said, which only made Lydia sigh and return to poking at her salad without looking at him. “Right, sorry, you were saying?”

Her smile returned as she nodded in acknowledgment. “Thank you. Apparently the school was able to hire a full-time teacher for the position. They got surprisingly lucky since it's the middle of the semester.” She took a small bite of lettuce and waited until she was done chewing to continue. “They offered my mom Morrell's old job which, frankly, is a much better use of her talents. See? Good news.”

Well, Stiles was almost certain that Mrs. Martin wasn't a duplicitous druidic agent of discord either, so having her as the school counselor was a boon. “That's good for your mom, but that leaves us with a total unknown in English. Not good. Definitely news of the bad variety.”

“It's statistically improbable that this new teacher will end up--”

“Harris, Morrell, Blake.” Stiles counted each name on a finger. “That's three teachers that have been involved with, or been completely, batshit evil. What are the statistics on that?”

Lydia was obviously annoyed at the continued interruptions, but the expression on her face said that even she begrudgingly agreed with some of his logic. It wouldn't stop her from poking holes, though. “Then the likelihood of it happening again so soon is low. So, as I said, good news.” With that, she reached into her purse, pulled out a bottle of water, and began to unscrew the cap.

“Except,” Stiles added. “We upset the balance. Deaton said so, remember? The Nemeton is active, the town is a big glowing sign for everything awful. That whole thing ringing a bell?”

“First of all, you upset the balance,” Lydia snapped. “I just ruined a good pair of shoes shoving you into that tub of water. Not my fault.” She took a sip of her bottle and replaced the cap. “Secondly, I don't need you to remind me about that stupid tree.”

Shit. Mentioning the Nemeton was probably not the best course of action with Lydia. “I'm sorry, I didn't--“

She held up a hand and Stiles was immediately silenced. “Nope. I'm not done talking. Lastly, Alan Deaton has--if I'm not mistaken--been consistently vague to the point of infuriating on pretty much every front, so I'm less inclined to worry about his warnings as I am to look at them with a skeptical eye.” Lydia paused only briefly, but in that moment must have seen something on Stiles's face that tempered her annoyance with him. Her voice sounded a lot less clipped when she spoke again. “Look. I get that he's the closest thing there is to an expert when it comes to everything that's happened, and I know he's been kind to you and Scott, but the fact remains that he admitted he really doesn't know what the end result of the ritual will be.”

“He said darkness,” Stiles supplied, and even he had to admit his voice sounded a little too crestfallen. It couldn't be helped. The idea of an unknown evil--because when had darkness not been evil?--had been the prevailing reason for his furtive but futile foray into all things arcane. If another crisis dropped into their laps, specifically his, Scott and Allison's, Stiles was going to do his damnedest to make sure they were prepared. That had been the goal, but it was starting to look hopelessly out of his league.

Lydia pushed her salad bowl aside and reached across the table to take one of his hands in her own. It was soft and warm, and only served to make Stiles realize that his was probably cold, and clammy, and not at all that appealing to hold. The contact was nice though, he thought. “Stiles, that could mean anything. We have to remember that we're dealing with texts written over many, many years by many different people. There is also no concrete way of discerning--and you know I hate to say the next two words together--magical fact, and magical allegory. Sweetie, the darkness could even be how much you're worrying about the idea of darkness. Wouldn't that be hilarious?”

It could have come off as inconsequential, but Lydia had said 'we,' and suddenly Stiles realized that she had changed. He wasn't sure when it happened or how he hadn't noticed sooner, his own problems probably to blame, but the Lydia Martin willing to even admit to the possibility of there being such a thing as magical fact--let alone comfort him--was far and away different from the girl that Stiles had mooned after as she glided down the hallways barely over a year ago. Hell, and didn't that make it feel like it had been a lifetime? It occurred to him almost immediately thereafter that he had changed as well. Back then, Stiles would have become a stuttering mess if given the opportunity to hold Lydia's hand. When had that crush turned into this welcomed, easy--if not sometimes competitive--friendship? It was different. It was nice. There were hundreds of ways Stiles could have said this to her, some of them even eloquent, but his brain decided on the most awkward of them. “You said we.”

Lydia responded with an almost undignified noise of disgust, and immediately retracted her hand like it had been covered in slime. “And that's the end of that. Good luck with the book.” She reached for her purse, ready to leave.

“No, wait!” Stiles stammered, trying to fix the situation. “I didn't mean it like that. Seriously, don't go.” Lydia kept her hand on her purse, looked a little dubious, but wasn't standing yet. That was good enough to go on. “I meant that you said it like you're part of it now, you know? Like you want to be. You never used to talk like that. You acted like you were above all of the rest of us, or that you didn't care, or that you were scared. Understandably! A lot of really bad shit happened--and the whole banshee thing, that's rough--but now? I don't know. You're different. It's weird, but it's a good different. Am I making any sense? You look like I'm not making any sense. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean it that way. I don't even think of you that way anymore even though, yeah, you're still gorgeous, and amazing. That's sorta your thing--“

“Stiles!”

“Shutting up.” Nailed it.

Lydia let out a long-suffering sigh and ran a hand through her hair. “I don't even know where to begin with all of that.” So she took a few moments to get comfortable in her seat again and folded her hands on the table directly in front of her. It looked like she was about to give a speech. “Shit happens.”

That wasn't quite the speech Stiles had expected. “What?”

“Excuse me, shit happened.” Lydia kept talking when he didn't question or interrupt again. “A lot of it, actually. I'd make a list, but you were around for most of it so it seems silly. Yes, for a time it looked like the best idea was to try to ignore the rampant absurdity and survive, and yes, maybe that had a lot to do with being scared out of my mind. I'm still scared. Any sane person--and I'm using that term far more loosely these days--would be.” Once again, she grabbed the water bottle out of her purse and took a hasty sip. She never bothered to put it back. “And wouldn't you know it, being scared did absolutely nothing to help me, or keep me separate from it. Quite the opposite, actually.” Lydia punctuated that remark with a motion so convincingly like a garrote, and with such flippancy, that it made Stiles wince.

It didn't slow her momentum. “The only logical course of action seemed to be to face whatever came, and I'm trying to. Does that make me part of it? I guess. Whether I like it or not, here I am stuck in a world where werewolves exist and sit across from me in algebra. My best friend is some kind of warrior princess. I'm a banshee of indeterminate ability and origin, and instead of discussing why my GPA will always be better than yours and gloating about that fact, or any of the other things people our age should be doing, we're spending lunch on magic theory instead.”

“Um, ok?” Definitely not the most intellectual way to answer, but it was all that Stiles could manage beside a stupefied stare.

Lydia didn't appear to have anything else to add. “At least close your mouth if you're going to look at me like that. It's distracting.”

“So what you're saying is, and please let me know ahead of time if I'm about to stick my foot in my mouth again, you're at a place where you want to be involved, like, with everything?” He tried to pick his words carefully.

It seemed to work, because though Lydia looked at him like he was an unruly child, her smile finally decided to return after its hiatus. And, yeah, it was still a lovely thing to see Lydia Martin smile. “I already said the word, Stiles. Banshee. We mentioned the damned tree. It's out there, so, yes. Do you think I've been offering to help you because I can't find old, poorly-transcribed books on my own time? Besides, where else am I going to learn anything about my condition?”

“I don't think being a banshee is necessarily a condition.”

“Semantics,” Lydia said with a shrug.

Stiles mirrored her shrug. “Well now I feel kinda like an asshole.”

“In your defense, you have been distracted, and I do have that effect on most boys.”

Stiles leaned back in his chair and stretched until his back popped. The air around the table seemed just a bit lighter. “I'm well aware of your effect on boys.” And before she could look disgusted again, added. “What were we talking about before? Good news, bad news? Your mom is the new counselor. That's definitely in the good column. Do you know anything about her replacement?”

“Not much,” Lydia said. She looked grateful for the change of subject. “Just that he used to teach college somewhere. I heard mom talking with him on the phone last night about lesson plans and stuff. She said he seemed like a nice man. Very polite.”

It could have been his natural predisposition toward suspicion, but that struck Stiles as odd. “Why would someone leave a college to teach high school in nowheresville?”

Lydia rolled her eyes again. “Any number of reasons that don't include magic, schemes, or death. You could always ask him tomorrow.”

“Wait, tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Lydia said, then glanced at the clock above the door.

“Doesn't that seem kinda fast?” Stiles asked.

“Do you think the school has time to sit on their hands and wait?” Lydia countered as she packed her water bottle away and closed the lid on her salad. “You're going to make yourself sick worrying like you do. One battle at a time, sweetie.” She stood and took her purse into the crook of her arm, and with that one motion her quintessential queenliness returned. “I have to find Allison and give her my history notes while there’s still time.

Stiles sighed to himself and hurried to shove his books back into his bag. “Wait up, I’ll walk with you. I need to talk to Scott anyway.”

“Let me guess, more plans for secret meetings at the Magical Veterinary Clinic?” There was no bite to her words, though, and Lydia even stifled a laugh.

“You’ve always been invited,” Stiles chided. “Maybe it’s time you showed up and really learned about your--what did you call it--condition?”

Lydia looked like she was about to parry the barb, but stopped herself. “Maybe.”

Stiles stopped, suddenly more excited than he had any right to be. “Are you serious? That would be great! Let’s get Allison to come too. Maybe if we had everyone there, we could actually have a productive conversation for once.”

Lydia halted then, and Stiles almost ran into her. For just a moment he worried that he’d said something wrong, but noticed she wasn’t looking at him; saw the stiffness in her spine. He looked beyond her to the library door. Aiden and Ethan stood there together as if waiting for them. 

Lydia lifted her chin a fraction and crossed her arms over her chest. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to talk to you at all. Ever.” Her voice was clipped, sharp, but couldn’t disguise the barest hint of fear. Stiles didn’t blame her. Even still, he stepped forward slightly until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with her. She’d probably berate him for unneeded chivalry later, but right now it was the best course of action.

Aiden looked down at his shoes. “I know. I didn’t--I’m not here to talk to you Lydia.”

“Oh, perfect,” Lydia snapped. “Here to read then? I’d suggest Othello. Iago is a lovely example of betrayal, if you need brushing up on the subject. Stiles, let’s go.”

Ethan raised his hands placatingly to stop them. “We didn’t come to bother you, but I need to talk to Stiles.”

Stiles glared. “Oh, you so don’t need to talk to me. Move.”

Aiden looked up then, and for a fraction of a second his face tensed. There was the momentary memory that he wasn’t just a meathead teenage boy, but something else altogether more powerful. Dangerous. Stiles swallowed hard. But didn’t step back. He didn’t have to. 

Ethan flicked his eyes to his brother and growled low in his throat until his twin huffed, then glared down at the floor once more. Ethan sighed. He moved to the side enough so that the two of them were no longer blocking the door completely. “I’m sorry. We’re not trying to... I just really need to talk to Scott.”

“I’m not Scott’s secretary,” Stiles sniped. “If he wanted to talk to you, he would. You’re not getting to him through me, so have fun with that.”

“But you’re his best friend, if you said--”

“Not going to happen, buddy. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Try Isaac. I’m sure he would _kill_ for the chance to talk to you two in private. C’mon Lydia.”

She strode forward with all the grace of a model, flicked her hair once, and passed the two wolves without giving them a single glance. Stiles followed suit, albeit far less gracefully, and the two of them kept the edge of their bravado up for the next minute that it took for them to turn the corner into the adjoining hallway.

Only then did they break into a panicked run, searching for Scott and Allison. 


End file.
